Page:Poetry of the Magyars.djvu/148

42 STILLNESS.

Vad Trácziának durva lakossai.

To the uncivilized Thracian the wine-cup

Seems to drop poison; he furiously seizes

The sabre, and wields it in passion,

And scatters around him the death-wounds.

Ye who were nursed at the breast of affection,

Nursed with the sweet milk of gentleness,―wherefore

This struggle—this raging of fury?

Be still—cease the storm of the battle!

Harper! awake thy soft music—the music

Which charms thine own maiden—sing joyous: the moonlight

That smiles on our cup so benignly,

Will soon be o'ershadowed in darkness.

High in the heaven doth the traveller linger,

Rolling her chariot in brightness and glory:

Doth she not feel that the mantle

Of twilight envelopes the morning?